"You simply had to go and read right there in the library," Pru could practically hear Emilia saying. "You couldn't wait a second. And you had to pull half the books off the shelves." 

Imaginary Emilia was right. It was all her fault they'd been found out!

Miss Poole moved away from the door and toward Pru, her voice quite severe and serious. "I'm glad you realize that this kind of thing can't be ignored."

Pru hung her head. "Yes, I suppose it can't." Still, she would not have Emilia blamed when the entire masquerade was her grand idea. "Really, it was all a mistake at first, but then—"

"Mistake?" Miss Poole scoffed. "It's too far gone for that. To get to this state takes more than ignorance."

Pru couldn't deny it. "You are right. There is no excuse for it."

"I support your efforts completely."

Pru glanced up, gaping at her. "You do?"

"Of course! This is a shameful situation," the girl sighed. "And it must be rectified."

Well, now she'd lost track. "I thought you just said you supported—"

"How can one contend with such a library?" She marched past Pru and plucked a book from the shelves. "Yes. We must do something."

"Yes," Pru said eagerly. "The library. That's what I was talking of as well." It was quite a relief, not only that her secret remained safe, but that someone else agreed this was an egregious error in shelving.

"Fordyce's sermons sitting next to Childe Harold. It's insulting!"

Prudence couldn't help but ask... "To which author?"

"Byron, of course!"

Pru quite approved. "Yes, precisely I... Aye, Miss. My mistress would agree."

"I rather wonder that Miss Crewe is not tending to this herself. I'd heard she was very well-read. Almost as much as myself."

Pru found herself blushing. "Well, she does try to... Almost?" she finished, slightly aghast.

"No matter. Someone must repair this damage."

Pru quite agreed with that. "I'd started to... Well, Miss Crewe had suggested they be shelved by subject."

"Wouldn't author be best?"

"Aye, for a home library where one knows whom to read," Pru supplied. "But for a gathering such as this... er... Miss Crewe suggests poets with poets and..."

"Playwrights with playwrights." Miss Poole nodded. "Yes, it would make it simpler for those unaccustomed to reading, as I'm positive Sir Anthony doesn't read more than the scandal sheets."

Pru snorted, then hastily pretended it was a sneeze. She was correct on that. Though Sir Anthony obviously remembered very little of their meeting in London several years ago, she recalled his attempts to claim — while staring at her sister and barely remarking Prudence — that he also greatly enjoyed reading as he read most of the paper every morning.

Miss Poole rubbed her hands together. "Where shall we begin?"

********************

"Don't you start!" Byrne growled as the dog started pulling at the rope, though he didn't blame him. He was getting quite bored with the entire thing himself. He'd only stayed because he knew very well Miss Crewe would end up planted in the stream again without his aid. Besides that... 

Well, the dog had been happy to see him, licking him within an inch of his life, which he didn't support at all. He'd thought he'd been formidable enough to scare him off before, but he'd obviously been mistaken and that must be corrected.

Perhaps he was formidable enough and it was only that the silly mongrel was not smart enough to recognize a threat like him. Yes, he liked that idea much better.

Then again, holding a rope and a bone as Miss Crewe soaped up the mongrel's tail, he felt anything but threatening.

Really, Miss Crewe's activities seemed to agitate the dog most. Going by his whining right now, Miss Crewe was giving him the worst punishment of his life. Perhaps Byrne should "accidentally" free him now. The beast would surely not return after such torture.

The poor beast had sat through the washing and even the rinsing, during which Byrne's legs and Miss Crewe's everything got nearly as wet as he did, but now that Miss Crewe seemed intent on brushing him, it seemed to be more than the poor fellow could take. He let out a whine that was part growl.

"Well, then!" Byrne put the bone in his pocket, at which the dog yipped in anguish. "Then stay!" He held the bone out and the dog stared at it, transfixed anew, as if he'd never seen it before.

Miss Crewe sat back on her heels, tossing the brush down and shaking her head. "How do you do that? He barely listened to me."

"It's all in the tone of voice. I noticed yours sounded wildly different when talking to the dog before."

She suddenly bent her head and picked up the brush again. "Doesn't everyone sound a little different when talking to dog, They can't help themselves," she gave Mopsy a stroke, "no they can't," she cooed.

"It wasn't like that. You sounded rather like one of the maids before I came upon you."

Her face turned to him, reddening slightly before she bent to her task, struggling with a knotted bit of fur. "I was... trying different voices, seeing what might work. I'm sure I'd have thought of barking at him like you do before long."

"Say what you like about it. It works."

"But how do you know how to do it? You don't seem to like dogs at all."

"That only applies to this dog."

"Poor Mopsy. What a shame. He seems to like you."

"He likes what's in my hand. He's been plaguing the house since we arrived and I don't agree with the dirty old mop—"

She opened her mouth to argue.

"—more of a wet mop than a dirty mop now, I grant you — getting rewarded with a bed by the kitchen fire and all the scraps he can gobble up."

"But why should you object?" She lifted her chin. "If Sir Anthony approves of my efforts, it won't be your concern."

But it would be his concern if his staff stowed the old mop away when they left. Miss Crewe's maid was right with her tales of the staff being divided on the dog. His valet, one footman, two house maids, and gardener were on the right side of things, his side, but he noted his stable man, other footman, and the cook and kitchen maid had suddenly told all kinds of tales about suddenly misplacing supplies or of meat that had gone off and had to be tossed away — a problem they never had so often in London.

"I have no prejudice against well-trained, useful dogs who know their place," he said. "My uncle kept sheep and he used to breed and sell sheep dogs, train them as well. I helped him most of my life."

She stared up at him, tilting her head. "You? You don't seem the sort to have... sheep farming uncles."

He frowned and looked away. "I don't, not anymore. And I wasn't always rich." Why in God's name was he talking about that? It wasn't as if he was ashamed of where he'd come from. He was more proud than not of making his own way. But he rarely talked of his family to anyone, especially gently bred ladies. Then again, most of his interactions with her sort were for the length of a dance, and certainly didn't involve the never-ending grooming of a dog. "Are you nearly finished?"

She stared at him a moment before taking up her brush again. "Near about. He's got matted fur in places, the poor darlin'. Then again, I've dealt with difficult hair before."

He glanced at the top of her head. "I don't know a thing about hair, but yours doesn't look... difficult." It looked lustrous, the sun bringing out streaks of dark auburn even through the trees. He wondered if it was warm to the touch, and as soft as it looked. 

"Not mine. My..." Her hand stilled. "My sister," she said. "Charity. Yes. My sister, Charity, had very difficult hair. It tangled something awful when she was careless with it. As she often was. It took me years to work out how to reckon with it."

He chuckled. "Well, we don't have that sort of time now."

"I'm trying, but..."

The dog yelped as she tried to brush at a matted bit.

She put a hand on his head. "Oh, no, darling. I'm sorry."

The beast stared between her and the bone, as if wondering if it was all worth it.

She sat back, sighing. "I was hoping to avoid the scissors, but there's nothing else for it." Her hand hovered over them a moment, but she didn't pick them up, stroking his head instead. "Everything is fine, Mopsy," she cooed, smiling. She held her smile tightly as she glanced up at him. "Would you come down here and hold him still?" she asked through her teeth.

"With my hands?" Byrne asked in mild horror. His boots were already muddy and his breeches were soaked. He shuddered to think what his valet would say after all this.

"If you could just hold him and stroke him and tell him what a good boy he is."

He rolled his eyes. "Lie, you mean?"

"You insisted on helping. You may as well finish the job."

Tony was right about her. She was an officious little thing. He found himself kneeling down, pressing a knee into the wet ground and wincing.

"This is nothing. I've got much more than a little mud out of a dress. I'm sure I can... ask my maid to look at your things if you like," she finished hurriedly. "She'll already be tending to mine."

Yes, her dress was quite muddy — also wet and clinging. He resolutely looked away. "I doubt my valet will allow it. Fletcher doesn't trust anyone but himself, so he scolds me terribly when he feels I've been careless."

She glanced up, nodding in approval. "Miss Finch is also quite particular about things being done properly. That's a good man you have."

"You won't be saying that when he's bloody well murdered me on my next shave." He winced at his coarse language, but she only laughed.

"If it helps, Miss Finch is always threatening to burn me with curling tongs, but she hasn't done it... yet."

"Still, you've put me in the way of a scolding, at least. You were right before. I should have left you to it and gone on my walk."

She gestured to the dog. "I hate to say it, but ye're in for a penny now, so..."

He peered at her, noting her Yorkshire lilt. It wasn't always there, but there was something intriguing about it when it appeared. From what Tony said, she spent half her time in London, yet her tone didn't have that same practiced, measured quality of the debutantes there. "What about you?" he asked, putting one arm around the still, but trembling dog, holding the bone away with the other. "You don't seem the sort to... befriend strange mongrels," he said, mocking her tone from earlier.

"Perhaps it's the English in me. Managing everything," she said pertly. "Besides, he's not a mongrel. I think he belonged to someone once," she said, cutting away at a bit of fur.

The dog shook, but seemed to tolerate it. Perhaps she was right. He buried his nose in Byrne's shirt with a whine, a very annoying gesture that Byrne told himself he didn't like in the least.

"I always wanted a dog," she went on. "But my mother couldn't abide them. They made her ill, sneezing and wheezing and the like. I prayed every night it would go away so I could have a dog of my own. But even when I played with the village dogs, she would get sick if I got close to her. And since she was always sick enough, I daren't even touch them after a while. I could only stare at them as they played, wishing I could join. They were always so... carefree. I liked seeing it, even if I couldn't be a part of it." Her eyes were distant as she cut at another patch. "Besides that, we couldn't afford another mouth to feed."

"I confess, I don't know much of your family," he said awkwardly. "But I had no idea Lady Crewe was so sickly. Or that your family had such trouble with..."

She glanced up, her eyes wide. "Oh, no. It was only for a time. Now—"

"It's not a mark against them," he said quickly, afraid he had offended her. "My own mother was ill by the end and my family often struggled to get by even at the best of times, so I..." Damn it, this wasn't something he talked about, not with anyone. He cleared his throat. "So I hope Lady Crewe is recovered now. And that you can feed many more dogs."

She stared at him a moment before nodding. "She is better off, I hope." She cleared her throat. "I mean, I pray she continues in good health, of course." She smiled suddenly. "Everything is perfectly fine now. No reason to complain."

He didn't believe her. Her smile didn't reach her eyes, which still seemed strangely haunted.

"I think I've cut the worst of it off," she said merrily, "but there is one more little thing..."

The dog's agitation seemed to increase as she neared his eyes with the scissors.

"Well, I must. You can barely see, I'd imagine. Be still, Mopsy," she said softly. "This will be very quick. I have a very steady hand."

The dog was not reassured. In fact, he started bucking with every limb. Even when Byrne tossed the bone away, putting his other arm around him, the dog didn't even look at the tasty morsel.

"Stay!" Byrne barked.

The dog didn't listen, struggling to get out of his grip.

"Can't you talk to him nicely?"

"That doesn't work. Dogs respond to authority, not cloying little—"

"Well, your barks aren't working either. He's frightened. Tell him he needn't be."

"I think you are over-estimating his grasp of language," Byrne grunted.

"You could try telling him he's a good boy."

"That's a bald-faced lie," Byrne said, annoyed. He held the wriggling mop in place. "No! Stay!"

The dog stilled for a bare second before renewing his efforts. It wasn't as if he was strong, considering he was still mostly fluff, but he certainly had a skill for wriggling.

"That's not helping," Miss Crewe supplied.

Byrne sighed and stroked his neck, which seemed to calm him a little. "Good... dog."

Miss Crewe cleared her throat pointedly. "He has a name."

Byrne rolled his eyes. "Mopsy," he started, stroking his neck, then giving it a scratch. "You be still now. That's a good boy. This is for your own good."

The dog stilled, then stared up at him, tilting his head, as if trying to understand.

Byrne ran a hand up to his chin before grasping it gently, keeping his attention on him. "That's it. You're a very good boy. Do you know that?"

Mopsy's eyes flitted to the scissors as they grew closer and he let out a whine.

"No. Don't look at them." Byrne stroked his ears, which were very soft, almost as much as a pup's. "Look at me. You've been a good boy. Yes, you have. You're going to get a very good bone and a bed by the fire and all the scraps you want after this and—"

"I'm done now," Miss Crewe announced.

Byrne stared into Mopsy's eyes, now clear of the fringe and eagerly locked on his. "—and if you misbehave, I will have you run out of the county, so I'd better not hear of any mischief," he finished sternly.

"You can let him go... if he's such trouble." Her smile was too sly by half.

He loosened his hold. "Gladly."

Miss Crewe stood up, brushing at her skirts, as if they weren't hopelessly muddied, then skipped off to fetch the bone. "Here you are, Mopsy." She tossed it to a nearby patch of grass.

The dog left him abruptly and tackled the bone. Byrne belatedly picked up the end of the rope, but the dog didn't seem inclined to flee now that he finally had his prize. His earlier terror forgotten, he began happily gnawing at the ends.

That left Byrne staring at Miss Crewe in her very wet, muddy, and very clinging dress.

He felt choked and started to loosen his cravat when he realized he wasn't wearing one. He resolutely put his eyes on the rope, holding it out. "Well... I hope Sir Anthony takes him in."

Miss Crewe didn't answer and he risked a glance up to see her eyes on the front of his shirt, which was also quite wet and likely painted on his skin. He must look a mess.

He held out the rope again. "Miss Crewe?"

"Is she here?" She glanced away, then turned back to him, stiffening. "I meant... Is he here? Sir Anthony? Yes. Because I... I should take Mopsy to him straight away."

"I believe he's in the house. I hope he accepts him. I think he would, for your sake." If not, Byrne would convince him to. It was the least Tony could do.

"For my sake?"

"Sir Anthony seems quite taken with you," Byrne said dully. "I'm sure you've noticed."

"Yes. He does," she said, also quite dully.

He peered at her closely. "Are you unwell? I could walk with you if you—"

"No! I... I am perfectly well. I think I may have had too much sun and I wouldn't want to deprive you of your walk. Good afternoon." She started off.

"Aren't you forgetting something?"

She stilled. "Yes. Lots of things," she muttered, almost too softly for him to hear. She turned back, staring at the ground as she dipped a knee. "I thank you for your help, Mr. Byrne. I hope your valet doesn't scold you too harshly." She started off again.

"I meant the dog."

She stopped again, turning back and letting out a strange laugh. "Yes, the dog! Of course!" She let out another laugh, her eyes still on the ground as she held out a hand for the rope.

He tried to give it to her, but since she was still resolutely staring at the dirt, she didn't seem to be aware it was there. He finally drew closer and took hold of her hand, placing the rope in it before closing her fingers around it with his other hand. He meant to let go, perhaps step away, but he found himself fascinated by her fingers. He'd not often had occasion to touch the bare hands of gently bred girls, but when he did, they didn't feel like these. These felt like hands that knew work.

Then again, she painted, didn't she? She must do an awful lot of it.

She snatched her hand away before he could give in to his ridiculous urge to stroke her palms, clutching the rope to her side. "Come along, Mopsy!"

The dog didn't heed her at all, just continued gnawing at his bone in deep rapture until she tugged on the rope. He stilled then, with a tiny and not-at-all-frightening growl, at someone daring to disturb him.

"To the house, Darling! That's a good boy," she cooed.

The wet mop seemed to consider it before turning back to Byrne, gripping the bone in his jaws and staring at him, as if asking for permission.

Byrne rolled his eyes. "What are you looking to me for? Go!" he barked. He wasn't his dog, after all. He'd belong to Tony before long, among other things...

TBC

*****************************

Thanks so very much for your patience. I'm very glad to be back at this house party.

And Happy Labor Day to those celebrating it (I marked it by not laboring... much).

I hope everyone's had a lovely summer!

More coming by Friday!